


Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps

by Mazarin221b



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fantasy, First Date, M/M, Masturbation, Masturbation in Shower
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-11
Updated: 2014-08-11
Packaged: 2018-02-12 16:11:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2116308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mazarin221b/pseuds/Mazarin221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has a lot of ideas of what might happen at the end of his first date with Sherlock. Maybe he should help himself relax a little bit, first. Wouldn't do to be too quick off the mark, you know.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 24 hour porn challenge on LiveJournal's Come At Once community! I had the prompt "just to take the edge off." Unbeta-d, un...well, anything, really. I just cranked this out like a good girl in my 24 allotted hours.

The water from the shower is hot – almost too much so – as it sprays John Watson’s head, pours over his shoulders and trails down his legs until it swirls down the drain.

The punishing heat is welcome; a distraction from the state of near-panic he’d worked himself into once it finally hit him that he, John Watson, had actually asked Sherlock Holmes on a date and, miracle of miracles, Sherlock had said _yes._

_“I’m sorry, did you just –“ Sherlock says, and his brow wrinkles._

_“Yes,” John cuts in. “Yes, erm. Yes, I did. A concert—Mendelssohn—with me. And drinks, after. If you’d like. I understand if – “_

_“No. I mean, yes. Yes, that would be…I would like that.” Sherlock flashes a quick smile, and John’s heart jumps in his chest._

So now, 24 hours later, John is having a small breakdown in the shower about half an hour before they’re supposed to leave for the concert hall. He’s going to take Sherlock to a concert, and then to a posh nightclub Greg suggested for drinks, and then … John tries, but can’t suppress the idea of the _and then,_ the possibility of bringing Sherlock home, light and happy and relaxed. Perhaps they would kiss, then, at the bottom of the stairs when they tumble through the door. Perhaps they’d kiss, and touch, and climb the stairs in a tangle to the flat where John could pull Sherlock in to straddle his lap on the sofa.

The water streams over John’s front as he turns and his cock twitches a bit at the vision - Sherlock above him, wild curls backlit by the lamp and eyes alight with lust. Then perhaps Sherlock would growl, and dip his head to kiss John’s mouth, and John would trail his lips along Sherlock’s glorious neck while he gripped that beautiful arse and rocked under him until they were both aching for release.

John finds himself aching now, his cock getting harder the longer he thinks about the soft press of night, what the cloak of late evening silence would bring to the ever-present tension between them. He teases his fingers along the shaft of his cock and shivers at the light, delicate pressure. He does it again, gripping harder this time, and the stroke of his own hand sends a shockwave of pleasure down his spine.

There’s a tiny shred of guilt lurking in the back of his mind that he shouldn’t be wanking to thoughts of Sherlock right before their first date; not when they haven’t even kissed. Or even discussed kissing, really. But the hunger, the longing is there, and every silence between them is filled with a buzzing awareness that fills John’s head with distracting thoughts of the beauty of Sherlock’s face, his lithe body, the feel of his skin under John’s fingers.

John had waged a silent war within if he should wait or make the first move, and convinced Sherlock was feeling the same way. The longer John waited the worse it got, until yesterday over breakfast he’d finally had enough of Sherlock bare-chested, soft and sleepy in the mornings and trying hard not to stare at John’s shoulders in his singlet – and just asked him already.

It’s the memory of the hunger in Sherlock’s eyes when he looked at John’s body that pushes John to give in and stroke himself again, teasing the head of his cock with his thumb. He’s so worked up now perhaps he just doesn’t bother making it through the concert or drinks and attempts to seduce Sherlock into coming back home early, into letting John slide his zip down, pull out his cock, suck him off right there in the hallway until Sherlock is fucking his mouth, his cock pressing hard against the back of John’s throat...

No. That would just spoil the entire evening John’s got planned. However, if things go as he hopes they will, if, perhaps, they do make it to his bed, John could lay Sherlock back against the pillows, spread his legs wide and lick him open, tongue him until Sherlock’s a writhing, moaning mess on John’s bed.

Oh, yeah, God. That’s one of those fantasies John could replay ten times a night. John lightly tugs on his balls and sucks in a breath at the jolt of arousal. Oh, who is he kidding? He’d probably go off like a teenager as soon as Sherlock so much as breathed on him.

So a little insurance, just to take the edge off, would be optimal.

John leans forward and braces his arm against the tile wall and strokes himself in earnest, abandons any hesitation or shred of guilt to fuck his own hand to visions of Sherlock’s mouth on his, the heat of his body, and the way his arse might feel if John ever gets to fuck him. John gasps at that last, then bites his lip lest Sherlock hear him and comes so hard it almost buckles his knees.

When the shivers subside, John huffs out a heavy breath in the steam. The heat and a spectacular orgasm leaves his head a bit muzzy and body a touch weak. But he knows he’s only got a few minutes before he’ll be late, so he forces himself to scrub up, eliminating all the traces of come from his body and down the drain before washing his hair. He shuts off the water and dries quickly, shaves more carefully, brushes his teeth and pulls on his robe before heading out toward the kitchen. He glances at the clock on the microwave. Damn, he’s really going to be late if he doesn’t move faster. Stupid, stupid, he shouldn’t have taken the time to wank, it’s going to be written all over his face and now he’s going to have the most observant and impatient man in the world waiting for him.

One glance and Sherlock will definitely know why.

John sneaks out through the kitchen door onto the landing, neatly avoiding the sitting room, and pops upstairs to get dressed. Grey trousers, deep blue shirt that he thinks makes him look at least a touch younger, the smartest black shoes he has. A last second decision to put on a touch of cologne Mrs. Hudson gave him last year. John takes a deep breath and goes back downstairs, only three minutes late.

He finds Sherlock in the sitting room, dressed to the nines in black trousers that fit him like a glove and show off the perfect curve of his arse, pale grey shirt so snug it looks painted across his shoulders, every curl and wave of his hair artfully gelled into place. He turns when he hears John approach and those gorgeous starlight eyes give John a very thorough, very appreciative, once-over before he smiles— a slow, salacious grin that means Sherlock knows exactly what John’s been up to. John groans internally.

Perhaps he should have wanked twice.


End file.
